


The Tale of The Grizzled Pup

by OneSmartChicken



Series: the one where there's an Irish faerie and Stiles is a fox(literally) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fox!Stiles, Gen, Pre-Relationship, blatant bastardization of faeries and Irish accents, nonhuman!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:16:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneSmartChicken/pseuds/OneSmartChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets turned into a fox, and it's sort of awesome, and this is a terrible summary.</p><p>[editted purely to fix grammatical errors; I'm a terrible proof-reader I admit it]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of The Grizzled Pup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trilliath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/gifts).



> PLOT BUNNY. FOX!STILES. THAT'S IT. THAT'S ALL THIS IS.
> 
> Trilliath told me to finish it so  
> I did.
> 
> So I had this almost fully proof'd and editted and all that and then the power flickered and my brain is took fucked up to even know if any of the edits I made took so fuck it, okay, just fuck it. If anyone wants to go through and edit this--I would literally kiss your feet okay. But otherwise--this is whatchaget. I quit. -collapses- I'm going to go cry.  
>  
> 
> Warning: I tried to type out an Irish accent. I don't know how to type out an Irish accent. Irish accents are not my specialty. I did my best; hopefully your brain can fix it a bit.  
> Also there's like some child abuse-ish stuff that's basically just like five paragraphs and isn't much and is really really low on detail. That's pretty much it. This is a really weird mix of fluff and angst but it turned out mostly fluff. I think I tried to write it in a way pretty similar to the original Bambi--the book. Read the damn book, if you haven't. It's insanely good. Anyway, I wanted a little of that oddly detached feeling that the book has. Hopefully it's not completely terrible.
> 
> Seriously though I'm _so_ sorry to Irish people everywhere the only accents I'm even vaguely decent at mimicking at a weird English-Australian mash-up and a bit of Russian and I can't type an accent I can't vocalize I just can't _I'm so sorry_

After his wife died, the sheriff was...troubled. Suddenly being a single dad was hard. So much harder than he could ever have imagined it, although he technically had quite a bit of practice while his wife was hospitalized. It's fortunate that Stiles was so close to Scott and that Melissa was more than accomidating, but he drank too much to be a good dad. He couldn't help it, not when his son looked at him with those eyes, so much like his mother's, and cried himself to sleep every night. Cried himself to sleep when he thought the sheriff wouldn't notice. John didn't know how he had already fucked up so bad that his son didn't even cry in front of him, so he drank. He wasn't not abusive--God he could never have forgiven himself if he stooped so low--but it wasn't good, wasn't healthy. It was borderline neglectful, is what it was.

And it took him a year and a half to realize that it was time to get his fucking shit together; he'll never forgive himself for failing his son for that long, but he'll do his damndest to make up for it. Stiles, as the boy insisted on going by since the first day of kindergarten when his teacher couldn't pronounce his name and the whole class(the sheriff suspects that was a bit of an exaggeration, especially since Scott was in that class) laughed at him, Stiles deserved to have a good dad and even if the sheriff didn't feel like he deserved a good son, he was going to try.

In six months, they made so much more progress than he would ever have dared to even hope for. It had a rocky start, with John trying too hard and Stiles reassuring him _I'm okay, it's okay_ , but he accidentally made a break through by bringing Stiles in to work with him. Stiles was too sick for school that day, and John simply had too much work to just stay home. Honestly he had intended to only stay for a few hours, just long enough to get a few basic things done and grab some paperwork.

He wound up sitting there watching Stiles, all snuffly and sick but bright-eyed with enthusiasm instead of fever, rummage around his office and interrogate all of his deputies, as well as a few criminals before anyone thought to stop him. There was something utterly endearing about watching a sick 8-year-old with too-big eyes hanging on to the sleeve of a pickpocket and assaulting him with questions while the clearly amused, slightly smitten thief leaned in to listen. Since the guy was hardly a crime boss, the sheriff decided to let the innocent barrage of questions go on a bit, too happy to see Stiles so _eager_ to go into protective overdrive. For at least ten minutes, and then he couldn't stop himself from going and dragging his son back into his office, though the thief had this big goofy grin on so the sheriff smiled at him instead of glaring and wasn't at all surprised when the kid cleaned up his act(actually, he joined the force five years later and cried when he found out about Stiles).

The sheriff started bringing Stiles in regularly, although he tried to keep him from talking to criminals despite his charms; it didn't work, because Stiles was a wily little thing, but he _tried_ dammit. Everything was--it was good. Even though the absence of Stiles' mother was an aching hole in their life still, it was good. _They_ were good. And then one day he came home and found the door broken open, and Stiles' favorite hoody laying in the doorway, torn and dripping with blood.

The tests confirmed that it was Stiles' blood.

The sheriff didn't collapse until three weeks later, didn't accept it until three months after that, and then he vowed to never let another child go through whatever had happened to Stiles. He never held a funeral, refused to accept it on that level, but Melissa started forcing him to come over for dinner at least once a night, and while Scott could never take Stiles' place, and Melissa could never take the place of his late wife, it was--it wasn't good, nothing would ever be good again, but it felt a little less like dying.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, and he definitely wasn't supposed to get in their car, and he was most certainly not supposed to go anywhere with them. His dad was going to be so angry. But Stiles didn't mean to go with them, really he hadn't. They were scary, but even when they had kicked the door in(which was kind of cool, in a distant way, underneath the mind-numbing terror of the situation), Stiles had insisted he wasn't going with them.

They were Bad Guys though. Bad Guys who hurt little boys, apparently, which he was pretty sure made them Very Bad Guys. Supervillain-level. Except that Supervillains didn't hurt little boys directly, not like they had, because that was petty, so they were more like Henchmen-level. Stiles told them this because he didn't have a filter, at least that's what his teachers said. Then they lost their temper, and he cried, but he told them that that just proved their Henchmen status because Supervillains were too cool to lose their temper like that. Which was actually a lie but it seemed like something one of the superheroes he idolized would say so he said it anyway. They laughed at him after that, probably because he was crying, and he was sort of just grateful they didn't hurt him again. Stiles was trying to be brave, because his daddy was the Sheriff and everybody knew that Sheriffs put Bad Guys, even Very Bad Guys, in jail. Where they belonged. Stiles told them his daddy was the Sheriff but apparently no one had told them about Sheriffs and what they did to people who hurt their sons because they didn't let him go.

Sniffling after another bout of screaming and violent flailing as one of the henchmen(as Stiles called them because it made him feel better) carried him into a house he had never seen before, Stiles told them that his daddy was going to make them regret this because his daddy loved him more than anything in the world. They laughed again as they closed the door to the little windowless room.

Stiles was still bleeding, which hurt. It hurt a lot, actually, enough that he thought Mrs McCall would have to give him stitches again, like she had when he had fallen out of a tree when he was little. Little-er. Remembering that in the shows he wasn't supposed to watch they always stopped the bleeding, he dragged the sheet off the bed and did his best to staunch the flow of blood. His daddy would want a hug when he found him, and Stiles didn't think the Sheriff would appreciate being covered in blood for their happy reunion. Stiles wouldn't appreciate it either; Stiles hadn't had too much of a problem when he fell out of the tree, but now he was starting to think that he really didn't like blood at all.

Wiping at his tears, he sat down on the bed, determined to wait as long as it took for his daddy to get there.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

There was nothing to do in that little room so, being 8-years-old, Stiles dozed off, but he woke up when the door opened. At first his heart rose, thinking it was his dad, coming to check on him as he did every night. Then, remembering where he was, he thought maybe it was his dad coming to save him. But when he looked at the door, it was a man he had never seen before, wearing an expression Stiles didn't like at all. He didn't have a name for the look, but he didn't need one; it was simply a very bad expression. Stiles thought the man was scary. Stiles thought the man wasn't Henchmen-level at all. Stiles thought that this man was a Villain. Maybe not a Supervillain, but bad enough to need a Hero to take him down properly.

That was okay though because Stiles' daddy was a Hero.

The Villain strolled into the room, smirking as he reached out to grab Stiles' jaw, turning his face into the light. Stiles whimpered and tried to look fierce instead of on the verge of tears, which was how he felt. The people on TV always looked fierce when Bad Guys grabbed them, even the Sidekicks. Well, innocent bystanders usually cried and screamed, but as the Sheriff's son Stiles was not an innocent bystander. Stiles sort of figured he was the Sidekick in this scenario, which he was sort of okay with. He was the Batman to Scott's Superman last Halloween, because neither of them wanted to be Robin, but Robin was pretty awesome honestly. Stiles would be Scott's Robin if it was for real and not just costume, so he could be his daddy's Sidekick too. He wondered what the Sheriff's Sidekick's name would be.

"Pretty," the Villain said simply, chuckling under his breath, and Stiles felt sick. Stiles' mom had been pretty. Flowers were pretty. There were lots of pretty things in the world and Stiles liked them just fine. He thought pretty was a good word, but the Villain made it sound like it wasn't, not at all, even if he seemed happy about it.

Stiles wanted to cry even more then, but one of the people at the station had told him that bullies wanted you to feel bad and that you shouldn't let them see that they were successful because then they would just do it more. It hadn't been one of the Deputies who said that, but the man had had kind eyes, so Stiles put more effort into looking fierce. Even when the Villain apparently found the look to be hilarious, Stiles went right on looking brave. His daddy was going to come rescue him after all; his daddy would be so proud of Stiles.

The Villain barked something Stiles couldn't understand, then Stiles was alone again. He hadn't heard the lock turn, but when he tried the knob it wouldn't budge. Stiles sighed and went to sit on the bed and look at his wounds some more. They weren't bleeding anymore, which was good he figured, but they hurt which was less good, although he wasn't sure if that was medically-speaking or just from his perspective.

It was when Stiles was just giving in to the urge to poke at the wound(he _was_ eight) that a little voice piped up, "I wouldn't do tat if I were you, lad." It sounded suspiciously like a female leprechaun, honestly. Stiles jerked, then twisted around, ignoring the sting of the wound being pulled on as he tried to find the source of the voice. "Auch! Down 'ere, laddy!" So Stiles looked down and there, laying on her back halfway under the bed, was a tiny person. Stiles squeaked. The little redheaded woman, with great big green eyes and long pointy ears, grinned at him in a fairly wicked fashion. She dragged herself out from under the bed, surprisingly graceful considering the action, and Stiles realized there was a set of flimsy-looking butterfly wings sticking out from her back. They dragged against the floor without taking damage, so they were apparently not as flimsy as they looked. The dress she wore, made out of some sort of grayish plant-y material that looked suspiciously like moss, dipped down in the back to accomidate the wings. With a long nose and terrifyingly huge eyes, Stiles couldn't precisely call her cute, or beautiful(another thing his mom had been), but there was something undeniably lovely about her that had Stiles instantly entranced.

"You're as pretty as Mommy," Stiles blurted out in a tone full of wonderment, because lovely wasn't actually a word found in his 8-year-old vocabulary. The faerie, because she was _definitely_ a faerie, blinked at him. She tilted her head, considering these words with great care. Then, suddenly, she beamed and leapt into the air, wings buzzing faintly as she came to hover in front of his face.

"Well you're just a sweet lil' thing, ain'tcha, laddy?" the faerie tittered, and suddenly calling her pretty fixed the damage to the word that had been done by the Villain.

The faerie seemed nice, nicer than Tinkerbell, who Stiles had never really liked anyway. She reached out and tweaked his nose, which startled a giggle out of him. She grinned again, a much nicer grin this time, then dropped down to stand on his thighs where she could scrunch her face up at the wounds. "For d'price of a compliment as heart-felt as tat..." As she reached out, Stiles braced himself for the inevitable pain of having the wounds touched, but all he felt was butterfly kisses against slightly tender skin. When he looked down, he found fresh pink scars on his belly where the wounds had been; even the blood was gone, at least from his skin.

The faerie beamed up at his incredulous look, bouncing up into the air again. "And for a lost little boy, oi can give ye somet'ing. 'Cause oi loike ye." She grinned at him so bright, Stiles, no longer in pain, suddenly couldn't stop himself from grinning back at her. The faerie let out a happy little laugh at the expression and crowed, "Payment accepted!" Then she clapped her little hands together, louder than such tiny hands should have been able to manage, and a cloud of glitter burst from her wings. There was more glitter than could plausibly have come from one set of little wings, and Stiles gasped as it closed in on him, dragging it straight down into his lungs. He choked, started to cough, and then everything was changing. It burned, but it didn't hurt, somehow. Tingled and twisted and dragged at his every sense in a not-at-all pleasant fashion, but it didn't hurt. By the time Stiles finished choking on the glitter, it was over.

Blinking to clear his eyes of sparks of light, like glitter was still lingering in the air around him, Stiles looked around and promptly. Everything was different. Not in a good way, though not in a bad way, either. Just different. Even his face felt different, like he was trying to frown and doing it all wrong.

 _Everything_ felt all weird. His _face_ felt weird(it was freaking him out most of all and thus deserved extra acknowledgement). When he reached up to touch it, his arm didn't move right, and his hand felt all weird, like his fingers were too short and his thumbs weren't really curling like they should. He couldn't get his arm up very high either because something was pulling on it all wrong, even though the only thing that he had on was his shirt. Unless the faerie had put something weird on him? Obviously she had done something weird. She hadn't just changed his outfit, right? Stiles tried to jerk to his feet, but his body got all tangled up in cloth and suddenly he was falling off the bed. He hit the floor, letting out a little "oof" at the impact, except it was more of an _aip_. Like the neighbor's dog when he accidentally stepped on her paw(he had cried until his mommy came and hugged him and told him it was alright because the dog wasn't angry, and then he'd hugged the dog and apologized profusely).

The faerie buzzed down to hover over his face, and even that looked weird, like his eyes were positioned all wrong. She just smiled at him. "Auch, ya, dis look suits ye. Ye'll be able t'get your own self free now, laddy. Can't do nothin else for ya, m'fraid, but ye'll get yerself safe, don'tcha worry 'bout dat none. Best go learnin how t'use yer new bo'y quick now though, so ye can bolt out'a da room when dem baddies open t'door again. C'mon, now. Start wit gettin' dem clothes off. Y'look ridiculous." She teased and laughed, reaching down to prod at his face as he squinted at her, trying to understand what the weird faerie was talking about. When he showed no signs of moving, she rolled her eyes. "Oh in da name o'--look, see?" She held up a mirror about as big as she was, which mean it was a little under foot and a half tall, pulling it out of thin air. Quite literally, too.

Stiles looked into the mirror, blinked, then looked again. He gasped, which was more of a yip, and the fox in the mirror gasped with him, jerking upright with a comically shocked expression. At least, it would have been comical if that fox wasn't Stiles and Stiles wasn't _a flipping fox._ On the up side, he was a very cool-looking fox, mottled black and silver instead of the the usual red. He managed to back up enough to get a good look at himself. The faerie was right; he looked ridiculous in his human clothes, so he went about wriggling out of them, wanting to get a better look at himself because _this was so cool_.

It took a really long time to struggle free of the clothes, the faerie offering no help, instead just standing back with the mirror and laughing so hard she wound up clutching at her sides as she draped herself over part of the mirror, which was apparently supporting itself now. Eventually though, Stiles got himself out of his clothes, after learning that fox teeth were sharp enough to bite through underwear and that his tail(he had a tail!) felt much less awkward when it wasn't constrained by clothing.

Feeling triumphant, he tried to prance over to the mirror, which looked a bit more like stumbling than prancing, but at least he was upright and not just flopping all over the place. He peered into the mirror, and let out a happy yip as he confirmed that he looked at least ten times cooler without the clothes. He was a tiny fox, barely more than a puppy, which was a little disappointing; he had hoped to be all cool and sleek. But his fuzzy fur was marbled black and grays with hints of brown and highlights of silver and red, and his right forepaw looked like it had been dipped in copper paint, then stepped in a bit of white. He had a bit of red on the very dip of his muzzle, with a white dab right about his eye, which was still the familiar backlit liquid brown of his mother's eyes. He liked that; he would not appreciate losing his mother's eyes, even though he thought they made his daddy sad. There was another splash of red and white on his chest, and he thought there was some more on his stomach, though he couldn't get a good look. Frankly, he was the coolest looking fox ever. Actually, he was the coolest looking _anything_ ever. Almost as cool as his daddy, in fact. Stiles was a worthy Sidekick now, that was for sure.

He grinned ecstatically at the faerie, buzzing with eagerness, and opened his mouth to tell her. "Awao wao waooo!!!" Okay that wasn't quite what he'd intended. Making a face, he worked his jaw, tongue flailing around as he tried to figure out how this mouth worked. The faerie had another fit of laughter in the meantime.

"Don'worry, ye'll get da hang of talkin' loik a fox," she assured him. Stiles tried to scowl at her, then his face fell, and he looked sadly down at the ground. He was good at talking, his mommy had been so proud of how good he was at talking. The faerie made a sad noise, drifting down the sit cross-legged on the ground in front of his nose. Stiles noticed absently that the mirror disappeared when she stopped touching it. He laid down, going cross-eyed to look mournfully at the faerie who reached out to stroke his nose gently. "Z'okay, it's real easy," she told him soothingly. "All ye 'ave t'do is tink 'bout da meanin' of da words instead of da words d'emselves, ya kin?"

Stiles gave her a skeptical look, which looked silly on the face of an 8-year-old boy, let alone a little fox. The faerie laughed at him some more, apparently her favorite pasttime, then she taught him how to talk. When he got the hang of that, she taught him how to walk, and then how to run. He would have thought it awfully generous of her, but she told him that the amount of amusement she got out of teaching a fox how to be a fox was payment enough for basic lessons. Stiles suspected she was a very nice sort of faerie and told her as much, which had her very seriously telling him that not all faeries were nice to humans, but then she looked thoughtful and said they might make an exception for someone as _"unique"_ as him. She had made an exception, after all. The faerie didn't exactly warn him against dangers, didn't tell him expressly that other faeries and even humans might try to hurt a little fox like him, among other things like bears and vampires and werewolves( _"Those are real too!!?"_ ) but she told him a lot in an offhand fashion. Stiles didn't think he would be a fox very long because his daddy would probably not know how to speak fox, but he committed everything she said to memory anyway. It would make for good dream fodder, once he was home.

After their lessons, Stiles leapt up onto the bed, which he had practiced quite a few times but was still proud of himself for managing. He curled up into a snug little ball without any need for a How to Sleep Like A Fox lesson, tucking his nose under his tail with a sleepy sigh.

"Remember, when da door opens--run, and don't look back, not for nu'tin," the faerie whispered in his ear, and then he was fast asleep.

He woke to the click of the door unlocking; it was quiet, but his new ears were more than sensitive enough to pick it up. Stiles hopped down from the bed, looking around for the faerie. She was nowhere in sight, which worried him. Still, he did as instructed. The moment the door opened, Stiles went bolting out, startling a shout from the man in the doorway. The sound hurt his ears, as did the pounding of footsteps and further shouting that followed. Stiles wanted to know where the faerie was. He wanted to know why these people had taken him.

He didn't want to stick around and find out though.

The front door was closed, so he darted through the house, whining as he looked for another exit, avoiding Henchmen at the same time. By pure luck, he was running through the foyer again when the Villain opened the front door. With a rush of simultaneous relief and terror, he shot out the door, right between the Villain's legs, and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, straight into the woods.

He ran and ran and ran as fast and far as he could. They didn't follow him far, didn't even reach the woods in fact, but Stiles kept running anyway. He ran where his heart told him to go, and didn't realize until late that not even his heart knew where his daddy was. Standing alone and lost in the middle of the woods, the little fox tilted back his head and keened and keened in absolute misery without even a mischievous faerie to soothe his aching heart.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Learning how to hunt was both delightful and awful. Delightful because pouncing was actually really fun, as was learning how to use his new, exceptionally keen senses. Awful because Stiles was _hungry_. He mostly hunted bugs, although he ate mushrooms and berries when he came across them. He was worried about that, remembering his parents warning him about wild mushrooms, until he sniffed a mushroom and his whole body recoiled from it, instincts screaming a very definite, _No!_

Insects tasted better than expected, which was good because the first time he caught a mouse he looked into its terrified little black eyes and let it go, then sat there keening for a while. He wasn't a particularly good hunter; the only reason he had even managed to catch the mouse was pure luck, or maybe it had been a very stupid mouse.

One day, a pair of red foxes stumbled across him, smelling of milk and what he shortly learned was the scent of puppies. They growled at him, circling around him while he whined and tried to look non-threatening. When he told them he was all alone, that they were the first foxes he could even remember seeing, they took pity on him and brought him home to join their temporary little pack. They taught him how to be a better hunter, licked his ears when he keened over the first mouse he actually killed, and though they tutted over how slow he grew in comparison to their other pups, they never made him feel inferior. Probably because he was actually fairly good at being a fox, having boundless energy and enthusiasm for anything to distract him from the _missing._

Stiles missed having thumbs.

Stiles missed warm food and curly fries.

Stiles missed having a roof overhead.

Stiles missed school, even.

Stiles missed being human.

The foxes who had adopted him as well as their pups all curled up around him at night, licked him and whined when he mourned. It felt like family, like gentle touches, like the fox version of hugs.

Stiles missed his dad.

 

*~*~*~*~* 

 

The foxes left when the pups were grown up. Since she still regarded him as a bit of a baby, his adopted mother let him follow her around for a while longer, long enough for several full moons to come and go. Stiles didn't keep track of time much, but he always noticed the full moons, if for no other reason than that they were the best nights for catching moths(which were particularly delicious). He was grateful to not be alone yet, but his adopted mother explained gently that foxes were solitary creatures, and that even if he was small, he was grown up and had to go off by himself eventually. Even after that, she let him stay with her. Stiles thought she was fond of him, liked his company. One day he woke up to her coughing. When he moved closer, he realized that she smelled wrong. When she looked at him, he realized that her eyes were bright, like when he had a fever. And when she turned and ran, he realized that she was protecting him. And he realized that both of his mothers had died, were going to die, of sickness. Stiles laid down in the spot where his adopted mother had slept and keened.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles was on his own after that, except he wasn't. Without the foxes around, he started talking to himself. Keeping himself in practice, he claimed, though he knew it was just because he was terribly lonely. One day a young mocking bird replied to his monologue though, which was when he realized it wasn't only foxes and faeries who could understand him. Stiles danced that day, and though the mocking bird's mother came to chase Stiles away, the little fox was overjoyed to not be as alone as he had thought. He talked to anything that would listen after that, which was mostly birds safe up in their trees, or deer when there were no fawns around, since a little fox was no threat to them.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

One day, not so long after he learned he could speak to other animals, he stumbled upon a human home. A little girl who looked about the age he had been before the kidnapping saw him. She screamed in delight, letting out an excited, "Daddy, look, a fox!" She ran towards him, and Stiles couldn't help but trot towards her, eager for human touch. His tail wagged, ears perked in excitement. Her finger barely brushed against his muzzle before a man was picking her up, swinging her away with a cry of, "Carla, no! We don't touch wild animals!" Stiles wanted to stay, wanted to roll over and whine and act like a dog, convince them he wasn't _wild._ Except the man was so big, and his voice was so loud, and Stiles was _scared_. So Stiles ran. He didn't see much in the way of humans after that.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

He outlived a great deal of animals, which, with a few exceptions, never felt as bad as it seemed like death should. Eventually an owl gave him a name, since there wasn't a fox version of Stiles. "The Grizzled Pup" they called him, even when he looked into a pond and found a nearly adult fox face looking back at him. Stiles supposed the silver highlights made him look "grizzled," and he didn't mind that they thought him old. By their standards, he _was_ old, older than any of them knew. He didn't think about his dad too much, didn't think about being human. Mostly because it hurt too much, at first, and then it was just habit to not think about it.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

When the granddaughter of the owl who had named him had taken up the nearly nightly "duty" of chatting with the odd little fox, Stiles stumbled upon a house. Technically, it wasn't the first or second inhabitted place he had been to, but after being shot at, yelled at, and had things thrown at him, he had developed a new survival instinct that told him to stay away from humans at all cost. Not that he didn't occasionally happen across campers or hikers anyway, but for the most part it was just him and the forest. This house though, it crept up out of the forest without any warning, with none of the loud noises and scents he had come to associate with humans. One moment he was snuffling his way through the underbrush, looking for mice and insects, and then he was stumbling out into a clearing full of life and sunlight.

He looked up, blinking rather stupidly at a towering structure like no tree or rock or cliff he had seen before. Stiles would never admit how long it took him to register that it was in fact a house, a human dwelling. A well-maintained one at that, tall and regal in a strangely natural way. Not that anything about it actually screamed "natural;" it looked like a normal house, technically. It was even a cheerful shade of peach-tinged cream, dark and dull enough to be tasteful but still bright and welcoming. It was enormous, bigger than any of the buildings Stiles had ever come across as a fox. The scent was what really drew him though, like honeysuckle and lime, like a warm hearth and a gentle breeze and the ocean all rolled into one. It was sunshine and springtime and warmth. It smelled like family, like love, like children and dogs. That last part was what made him stop, realizing only then that he had been creeping cautiously closer.

His hackles raised, ears perking up as he stretched his sense for the dogs he smelled. Dogs were worse than humans. Humans usually just wanted him to leave, dogs wanted him between their teeth. There were people in the house, he noted, three or four of them. A woman puttering around, humming softly. A younger woman laughing at something a man was murmuring, their scents intertwined even more than living together could account for. _Mates,_ Stiles absently identified, and turned his sense outward; three humans inside a house held little interest for him, no matter what his nose was trying to insist.

There was nothing, so far as he could tell, only the sounds of forest life. He started to relax, ears drooping on a relieved sigh. Then something shrieked--" _MOMMY THERE'S A BABY FOX,_ "--and suddenly there were hands on his back, fingers threading through his fur. He yelped, jerking away. The fingers let him go, thankfully, and he tried to dance away, only to run into someone's legs.

"Cora, you're scaring him!" was growled over his head. Stiles was boxed in, trapped by three young humans who smelled like forests and dogs. He hadn't even sensed them. How had he not sensed them? Ears down, he crouched, cowering at their feet. His eyes darted about, searching for his moment, his escape, not bothering to examine the humans. They were a threat, but not one he could, or would fight. They weren't Bad Guys, no matter how scary they were.

"You're not supposed to touch wild animals, Cora, you know that," chided a female voice on Stiles' other side. Leaves crunched, too close for comfort. Stiles whipped about, staring at a young woman knelt just a scant few feet away. "You're a scrawny little thing aren't you?" she asked which, rude. Stiles was not scrawny. He was lean, thank you. "Pretty young to be out on your own too. Where are your parents, pup?" Stiles whined, not appreciating the reminder, either of his parents(all four of them) or how small he still was. The woman shook her head, dark hair bouncing. "No, see, you're supposed to _growl_. Don't you know anything?" Clearly Stiles did not. He tried, despite everything, to give her whatever approximated a sardonic look on a fox. Whether or not it had any effect he would never know, since she was turning away before she could get the full effect, standing up as the door to the house banged open and the woman who had been humming came striding out.

"Kids, what in God's name are you getting up to?" she asked, sounding more resigned than angry.

"Cora touched the fox and Laura's trying to talk to it," blurted the boy of the trio, earning himself an eyeroll from the older girl. 

"Foxes don't come near the house," Laura(apparently) stated stubbornly. "I mean, there's barely even foxes around here. They run when they smell us anyway. And look, Mom, this one's barely more than a baby." She flicked a wrist in his direction. Stiles bristled, taking her earlier advice as he let out an irritable little growl. He was _not_ a baby. Babies didn't go to police stations or talk to faeries or spend however-long surviving all on their own in the wild. He wasn't a baby and he wasn't _scrawny._ Stiles was a very good hunter now, thank you very much.

At some point, his cowering crouch had turned into him laying sullenly between the trio, tail twitching in irritation. His nose scrunched as he watched what was apparently their mother trotting over to them with a frown on her face. The older woman was pretty, like his mother had been, though not like the faerie; Stiles had never seen anything remotely resembling the faerie since then, and wasn't sure he wanted to. As a fox, scent had become far more important than sight, and her scent was particularly attractive, even if she smelled as much like dog as everything else around did. The combination of leather and jasmine was a bit odd, but the rest of her scent was homey and comfortable, appealing to him in the same way the house itself did.

"Hey there, little one," she crooned, stopping further away than her children had. In fact, she shot little Cora a warning glare, and the girl took a sulky step back. The fox's head lifted slightly at that, looking at the woman with more interest. "Are you lost?" Stiles scowled, ears pinning.

 _"No,"_ he snapped at her, tail smacking impatiently against the grass. The thing had a mind of its own. Even he rarely knew what it was really trying to express. Most of the time he just figured it was as restless as the rest of him. It was the truth, by the way, not that anyone cared or would understand him. He wasn't lost on account of the fact that he didn't have anywhere to be. Stiles hadn't thought about going home, back to his dad, in a long time.

To his surprise though, the woman didn't flinch away from his snapping teeth. In fact, she smiled a little brighter, a little kinder. "Is that so?" she murmured, as if she could understand him. "Well, you're welcome here any time you like. If you're ever hungry, or just need a bit of company, our house is safe for you. There's a doggy door in the back; just slip on through that if you ever need it. No one here will ever hurt you." Stiles stared at her, eyes particularly wide. He didn't know whether or not he was supposed to respond. He honestly wasn't sure whether or not she had even understood him. He should ask, he _wanted_ to ask, but all he could seem to do was lay there, frozen and wide-eyed, scared and terribly confused. Apparently the woman didn't need a response though, since after a few moments she straightened up and, beckoning to her children, headed back towards the house.

"Bye puppy," Cora called forlornly, before trailing after the older humans dutifully.

Stiles darted immediately back into the woods, seeking out a thorny bush to crawl under. He laid there under his spikey shelter for a long time, wondering if the dog-scented humans really qualified for that term at all. And for the first time in a long while, he thought of the things the faerie had taught him.

Stiles wondered if wolves smelled like dogs.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles wound up back at the house, although he hadn't expressly given himself permission to do so. He had mostly just fidgeted a lot and whined at the owl(Bitter Creek; he liked to call her Biter) and sort of stumbled into the clearing. There was no one in the house this time, only the oldest woman standing in the backyard, watering her plants. The hose was louder than he remembered it ever being, which made sense; he had never heard a hose with his fox ears. He stood at the edge of the forest, poised to bolt, frozen at the sight of her. Her eyes flicked towards him, landed on him. His ears lowered, he started to duck away, but she had already returned her eyes to the plants. So he stayed, trembling uncertainly, watching as she moved slowly about the garden. When his legs started to get tired, he sat down and went right on watching. She never looked over to him, never said a word, although she sung to herself softly now and then. When she turned off the hose, she coiled it neatly by the back door, in which there was the promise doggy door. As he watched, she made her way inside, and he finally relaxed. For some reason, even knowing he would have bolted had she made any moves towards him, Stiles was left feeling disappointed.

And then the door opened again and the woman leaned out. She set down a plate on the doorstep, then went back inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Stiles crouched timidly by the woods for a very long time, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He crept through the garden, deer-cautious, pausing at every sound, every faint sign of disturbance. It took an eternity before he was finally sniffing at the porch step, carefully picking his way up on to the smooth concrete where he sniffed delicately at the plate and its contents. A neat pile of finally chopped meat--he didn't know what type; the only things he had tasted as a fox were smaller than a raccoon, although he knew what bird tasted like so he at least knew it wasn't chicken--beckoned to him, enticed him. It was cooked. Stiles couldn't even remember what cooked food tasted like.

He ate the meat.

Cooked food tasted amazing. But, even though it was rude, he didn't stick around to say thank you. As soon as he had licked the plate clean, he sprinted through the garden and back into the relative safety of the woods. When the owl came to talk to him that night, he told her all about the woman and the garden and the cooked food. And when she asked if he intended to go back, he said yes.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles did go back, every day, in fact. The woman didn't water every day, but she was usually outside when he showed up. She wasn't always the only one there, but she was the only one he saw for the most part, and the only one who would look at him and smile. He crept a little closer every day, made his way over to the plate a little faster. It was when he was finally standing at the edge of the garden, having moved fifty feet closer than that first day he had sat and watched her garden, that he made his decision.

Sitting up, although he had only just sat down, he strode straight over to where the woman was sitting, drinking tea, and sat firmly down beside her with a soft, determined huff.

She simply reached down, slow and calm but without hesitation, and scratched his ears. "Hello there," she said, like they did this every day. "Would you like a cookie?" Stiles looked up at her hopefully, so she gave him a cookie. He laid down to chew it apart, and they didn't say anything else to each other all day, but it felt like everything had changed.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Everything had changed. The next day when he showed up, she looked up and grinned, waving him over. Stiles hesitated, unsure of this change, but he had decided to trust her. He trotted over to where she beckoned him, by the rosebushes today; she was wearing her gardening clothes and holding shears so today was apparently a pruning day.

"I'm Talia Hale, by the way," she casually told him, and then she dove straight in to a one-sided conversation, telling him about her family and, as far as he could tell, whatever popped into her head. She warned him gently that he should probably not come by the house on the full-moon, which was only a week away, only to wander off on another story before he could ask if they were really werewolves.

He didn't say anything again that day, but he made another decision.

 

*~*~*~*~*

" _They call me Grizzled Pup,_ " he told her when he popped up in the garden the next day. " _It is not my name. But it is what they call me._ " And she looked at him, mouth twisted in an odd expression, while he stared expectantly back at her.

"Well then, Grizzly," she said cheerfully, "Would you like to help me finish off some casserole?" And that was that.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

On the night of the full moon, when Stiles had stayed away just as Talia asked, the entire forest screamed in silent dismay as they ran and hid. Stiles was the only one running towards the terrifyingly bright light, towards the agonized howls and the clearing that smelled like home.

Stiles wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the world apart. They couldn't get out. They were dying. He tried digging and kicking and biting, he tried to get closer, tried to help, but there was a woman with a mane of blond hair and Talia screamed at him to run.

Stiles ran.

When he returned, the clearing was full of people. The howls had stopped. Stiles laid down and watched them put the fires out, listening to the hoses and remembering gardening with Talia. Stiles laid there staring long after everyone had left, long after the fire had died down. Eventually he slunk into the house, which smell only of ash, and began to whuffle around, unable to help himself. When he came upon a slightly less-burnt spot on the ground that smelled like Talia, he remembered the black bags they had carried from the house.

Stiles laid down on the burnt floor, on the only spot possibly in the whole world that smelled even a little like Talia anymore(the garden had burned too; the fire had nearly spread to the woods, but the firemen got there in time to stop that, at least) and keened.

 

*~*~*~*~*

Biter said he should leave. She said a home that smelled like ash and sorrow was no home at all. She said it was messing up his scent, making him a worse hunter. Biter was right, as she always was, except Stiles couldn't leave. He just...couldn't. Couldn't leave another home, another family.

There was a cupboard in the kitchen where the fire hadn't done much damage, to the interior at least. The door and most of the cupboard's contents were burned away, but it would do. He made himself a nest in there, with branches and moss and anything else he could drag in. He searched every inch of the house and found a few knick knacks that had survived the fire, and added them to his nest. He memorized every spot that smelled like someone, even the ones whose names he didn't know, and he visited them every day. Biter said it wasn't healthy. Stiles couldn't disagree. But he couldn't leave either. So he and Biter made their sad little home, and Stiles silently promised himself that somehow, someday, the clearing would smell like life and sunshine again.

He promised Talia too, every night when the moon was full, even though Biter always commented on it. He promised her he would fix her garden, promised he would look after her home. He didn't know how, but he promised it, and Stiles kept his promises.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

One day Stiles woke up to some great big thing crashing through his home. Hearing the shrill cries of the mocking birds that had made a home in someone's bedroom, their three younglings kicking up a fit before their parents silenced them with raucous calls from elsewhere in the house, the fox shot out of his den. He peered around the doorway into the main room to see what the commotion was about. A woman stood in the doorway, frowning at _everything._ Stiles stared at the human invading his home, disgruntled already and ready to kick up a fuss. He had chased off a fair amount of teenagers come to mess around in the burnt shell of a house, but this woman didn't look like the usual thrill-seekers.

"There are raccoons in my house," she remarked aloud to herself, sounding incredulous. "What is my life." Stiles scowled, hackles raising as he took a step forward. His nails clicked discreetly as he prepared to scare her off, already hating her for trying to claim the house. How dare she. Her eyes darted straight to him, though he knew the nail clicks hadn't been loud. Humans weren't that perceptive. Stiles stared with huge eyes as she regarded him curiously. After a few moments of staring, she knelt down and held out her hand.

"Hey little guy," she murmured, twitching her fingers beckoningly at him. "C'mere. Don't worry, I don't bite." She grinned at that, like it was an inside joke. Stiles didn't know what to think of this woman who clearly didn't know the "don't touch wild animals" rule. He took a cautious sniff, but didn't smell any weapons on her like the hunters who had gone after him a few times before he learned to avoid them. She smelled good, actually. Really good. Like baked apples, and old wood.

She smelled like dog.

Stiles' heartrate spiked and his throat closed. He wanted to leap into her arms. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry and yelp and kick up a fuss. But he didn't do any of that.

Ears down, he slunk cautiously from the kitchen('food den' was as close as he could manage in the language of the wild). He paused every few steps to stare at her, but the woman never moved, just knelt there and waited for him to make his way over. It reminded him of Talia. It reminded him a _lot_ of Talia. But that had been a long, long time ago; Stiles dared not trust so easily. He had a promise to keep. Just out of reaching distance he stopped, stretching out his neck while she held her arm very still so he could sniff delicately at her fingers. He looked up at her face, and his stomach dropped, because he remembered that dark hair and those bright eyes. Stiles regretted that foxes couldn't cry. He felt like crying, but not the keening sort of crying.

"Hi there, little guy," she murmured. "I'm Laura. Mind if I ask you for a favor?"

Stiles wound up letting her pet his ears while he put his chin on her legs and laid down beside her, listening to the woman's tale of fire of loss. She told him she was a werewolf. Stiles started to pull away, prepared to tell her that he knew, that he had known Talia, that he had known her, just a little, but Laura made the saddest of noises so he curled up again.

 _"Tell me about your family?_ " Stiles requested with a faint whine. He knew a lot about her family. He knew that she liked caramel apples and hated roller coasters until she was nine. He knew her mother loved to garden and was the scariest monster in the whole forest, but also the nicest. He knew she had a big family with a lot of siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles. He knew the exact spots where her family members had died. But he didn't tell her that, though he couldn't say why.

She settled down, getting more comfortable, and told him everything she could remember. The favor was simple; keep an eye out for any other werewolves and, in a softer voice, she asked him to look after her brother, if something happened to her, if he came looking. Stiles readily agreed, though he told her he didn't see humans--so to speak--very often. He didn't tell her that he would have looked after Derek whether she asked him or not, didn't ask if there was anyone else he should look out for. If there had been a chance that Talia was out there still, he would have asked, but Talia was the only one Stiles was sure of. Talia had died six feet from where he and Laura now curled, although the spot no longer smelled like her, was not the same color as the rest of the grungy floor.

Laura said that it was alright, so long as he kept an eye out.

They spent a long time sitting there on the ashen floor. After a while, she laid down with him, pulling off her jacket to use as a pillow, and talked to him some more. He told her, when she buried her face in his fur and cried, about the owl who had named him the Grizzled pup, and about the owl's children and grandchildren, about his granddaughter Biter who was his closest friend. He asked her if she would be his friend as well, asked if she would mind having a fox for a friend. She said she would be honored to have him for a friend, no matter what his species, and he licked her cheek and didn't tell her how much she reminded him of Talia. He should have told her, but a fox could not say Talia and there was too much explanation to be had. Not yet, he told himself. He would tell her later.

Laura was his best friend before he even asked her to be his friend. Laura promised to come back every day, promised to sleep in the house with him even though she could afford a hotel, although she had to spend her days looking in to something about the fire. She wouldn't tell him what.

Laura didn't come back on the fourth day.

On the fifth day, the owl told him that there were humans in the woods, looking for death. The owl told him she had been there when someone found part of what they searched for. The owl told him that it was Laura's death they looked for. Stiles didn't keen. He delicately pulled down the jacket hanging on the stair railing, careful with his teeth, and carried it as best he could into his little cupboard-den. For once the owl left her trees, settling down where he could curl around her. Stiles licked her even when she told him he was going to make her feathers gross. The owl was his only friend, best or otherwise, once more.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

When the new werewolf showed up, Stiles burst out of the kitchen, snarling as fiercely at a fox was physically capable of. It was only two days after they searched the woods for Laura and Stiles was just so _angry_. Angry that his love seemed to tempt the fates in their cruelty, angry that the world continuously tore his family apart. All he had left was a stubborn owl and Stiles was just so _sick_ of it. The werewolf was not impressed with his rage. He snarled back at Stiles, even when Stiles tried to nip, tried to drive him out, tried to fight him for killing his friend.

"Enough, fox!" the werewolf roared, batting him almost carelessly away. Stiles yelped, scrambling away as he suddenly remembered how much weaker he was than a werewolf. Suddenly remembered the promise he had to keep. Promises, now. He curled defensively a dozen paces away, teeth bared still as he defended the kitchen from this intruder.

 _"How dare you come here after what you did!"_ he yowled accusingly, teeth snapping furiously around the sounds. The werewolf's expression leapt to shock, then slid into guilt for a moment before shifting to confused outrage.

"What I--what did I do that would make a fox attack me?" he growled with a terribly intent scowl. It was a truly impressive scowl, but there was something about his scent; the smell of books and spices and old wood and dog. It made him less scary than any other adult human Stiles had seen as a fox. Other than Laura, of course. They all seemed huge and looming and dangerous, but this one, probably more dangerous than them all, didn't seem so big. Underneath it all, he smelled like tears and exhaustion. Even now, Stiles was a bleeding heart, as Biter's grandfather had teased in the dead of night when no one else was listening. Even with his adoptive parents' lessons, Stiles never quite took to hunting, would never raid nests and may or may not have rescued a few baby birds from other predators. The owl had thought him funny, laughed at him when his stomach growled and he still refused to go for the easiest of prey.

 _"You killed my friend!"_ Stiles snarled, baring his sharp little teeth, although he found himself feeling far less sure now.

"I haven't killed anyone!" the man let out, throwing his hands up in frustration. Then suddenly he was frowning at the floor as if it had personally wronged him, and the scent of pain and guilt that seemed to constantly leak from him grew stronger. "Not...directly, at least." Shaking the visible melancholy off, the werewolf turned his frown on Stiles once more. "I certainly haven't killed any of _your_ friends, fox. Jesus. Now get out of my house before I call an exterminator." Stiles grimaced at the blunt attempt at shooing.

 _"It's not_ your _house. It was_ her _house. But you killed her. Unless you didn't?_ " Stiles' eyes narrowed suspiciously. He had uncurled at some point, leaving himself standing stiff and straight-tailed but considerably less timid-looking. Of course the timid-look was nothing more than another defense mechanism for a fox; the protective curl a guise for a pose prepared equally for fight or flight. He doubted this wolf would know that though. Laura would have known.

Talia would have.

That thought had his pinned ears swiveling forward. It wasn't just this man's scent that was soothing, there was something about his face...

"What are you talking about?" he scowled at Stiles, then suddenly blinked, jerking forward. "Laura!? Are you talking about--was your friend _Laura?_ "

Stiles jolted upright at the name, snapping to attention. _"You--"_ Of course he was. Old wood and books and grief. Oh man, how had he not realized sooner? _He had Talia's eyes._ Stiles whined, a pained and happy sound, and wiggled as he took a few nearly stumbling steps towards the werewolf. Derek. He wanted to hop, to howl, to run outside and throw himself into Talia's garden and tell her joyously about how her son had come home, as he had told her about Laura. _Laura._ Stiles' head drooped abruptly, taking his briefly elated mood along with it.

" _She was my friend_ ," Stiles muttered at the floor, scuffing a paw across a particularly dark spot. " _She died. The humans searched for her death days ago._ " Over the smell of ash and growing things, Stiles' and Derek's mingled grief soured the air.

"I know," the wolf huffed. "She is--she _was_ my alpha. I felt it. When she died. When someone killed her."

Stiles whimpered, _"I'm sorry."_ Derek nodded. They didn't speak after that, didn't touch. Eventually Derek left, and Stiles slunk back to his den to sleep for a while more.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles sat and watched while Derek buried Laura. For the first time in a long, _long_ time, Stiles thought of his mother. His birth mother, that is; he was reminded of his adoptive mother whenever he caught a mouse, or came across an old den site. He remembered her funeral, though only vaguely. He remembered an uncomfortable suit and a lot of people in black clothes, and a beautiful bouquet as colorful as his mother had always been. Laura didn't get a funeral, just Stiles and Derek and a few animals that came to watch, curious to know what the Grizzled Pup was getting up to. Stiles and Derek didn't talk, but as Derek twisted the rope and delicately planted the little flowers with fingers that burned, Stiles stepped forwards. Head bowed, he sniffed at the freshly turned earth, letting his mind wander over its farewells until he finally came up with a few suitable words that were more vocalization of sorrow than actual words. He asked his mothers to look after her, and apologized to Talia for not being able to protect her daughter.

The two of them wound up sitting together on the porch, Derek eventually scratching absently at the fox's ears. They still didn't talk, but a bond formed in their mutual grief and love of Laura.

After a few days, Stiles came to the conclusion that Derek wasn't the talkative sort. Stiles started to talk at him, following him around the woods, though he never went into town with him(although when he realized how _close_ town actually was, Stiles stood and stared in shock for a while, wondering why it seemed a bit familiar). Derek wouldn't actually let him go into town with him, snapping his teeth and growling when Stiles got too close to the road, which Stiles was secretly pleased with because humans were still scary.

Stiles refused to let Derek out of his sight if he wasn't in town though. Derek complained about that sometimes, which was the most he talked about anything honestly so Stiles didn't mind it particularly, never took the complaints to heart. He thought Derek was, somehow, as lonely as Stiles.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles lead Derek into the backyard when he realized Derek had been avoiding it. Although, 'lead' was a generous word; doggedly herded towards it was probably more accurate. There was nipping at heels involved. Derek was not pleased, threatening all sorts of creative bodily harm, but he shut up when he saw what Stiles sought to show him.

The garden wasn't the same. It would never be the same; given a hundred years and thumbs, Stiles couldn't recreate Talia's garden, and wouldn't even if he could. Sometimes the best way to honor someone's memory was with change though.

The roses had come back first, throwing up little green shoots that had blended in with the grass struggling to grow in. Stiles had stared incredulously at them for hours when he recognized their tiny, ridged leaves. They had grown swiftly and with reckless abandon, thriving despite, perhaps even _in_ spite of everything. Talia had always said roses had the most personality of all her plants, and Stiles thought, when the first peach-petaled blossom had opened, they had personalities similar to that of their gardener. Thriving in diversity.

Ferns had grown next, spreading like, to use a painful analogy, wildfire as soon as they got the idea about them. Stiles couldn't actually remember how much in the way of ferns Talia's garden had had, but now it had a fierce coat of them in every corner, taking up any space left empty enough for their shallow roots. Stiles had dug up roots throughout the forest, burying them throughout the garden and hoping for the best, and some of them had turned into vines that crawled over crumbling walls and other plants alike. There was a blueberry bush that had most definitely not been in Talia's garden, and the beginnings of a birch tree that had come rather out of nowhere. The garden looked nothing like Talia's, even the roses, which were wild and sprawling rather than the carefully tamed mess Talia had always kept. But it was beautiful, and it drew more butterflies every spring. The birch tree would eventually become a home for wildlife, as the rosebushes had become home for a family of oppossums that never bothered much with Stiles.

Derek sat down on the back porch to stare at the garden. When he showed no signs of doing anything else, Stiles crawled purposefully into his lap, and they both sat there, watching the grass grow, until the sun set.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

They found a pair of kids in the woods one day. One of them smelled a bit like sickness and chemicals, but he smelled stronger of dog. Derek growled at them, saying they were on private property('territory,' Derek grunted when Stiles asked later), while Stiles watched from the bushes where he couldn't be seen. He teased Derek about bringing the kid's lost item to him, and Derek grumbled about cheeky foxes being cheeky. Derek brought him fast food sometimes. Stiles rediscovered curly fries. Derek didn't pry when Stiles buried his head under the werewolf's arm and whimpered at the memories. Derek was a big softy though, as Stiles was coming to realize; curly fries became a regular part of Stiles' diet. They tasted better than moths.

Derek talked sometimes, eventually. Told him about Scott and Isaac, apparently the kids from that day in the woods. They came by a couple times, as did a few other kids. Teenagers, actually, Derek called them. Stiles wondered if he was a teenager now, or if he was already an adult. Maybe he was still just a kid. It was hard to tell, as a fox. He told Derek that Scott seemed familiar, and Derek scratched his ears and said that kids were kids and sometimes they came out and played around in abandoned buildings so maybe Stiles had seen him when he was a pup. Stiles didn't tell him that he had never been a pup there, not really, except of the grizzled variety. He wasn't sure why he didn't share. It was hard to find the words, still, and he wasn't sure it would help to remind Derek of the day he and Laura and Cora had found a fox in their yard.

When Derek told him that the strange werewolf was his uncle, Stiles licked his friend's chin comfortingly, then curled up on his lap. Derek laid down where Laura had, where it still smelled faintly of apples, and Stiles burrowed into his arms. In the dark, Stiles thought of Talia and how she had told him about her brother, who played wicked pranks but was so terribly kind, and absolutely besotted with his wife. She had told him how he doted on the children. Talia had said Peter was Derek's favorite. Stiles promised himself he would not let this friend be torn away, not even by grief.

Stiles watched them kill Peter. He wanted to leap at the hunters, but Derek had managed to lock him up in one of the rooms. He could only watch helplessly through the window as Derek took his favorite uncle's life. Hours later, after everyone else had left, Derek finally came to let him out, when Stiles' whines became loud enough to reach the trees and echo back.

Stiles tried to offer comfort, tried to burrow into his friend and lick his face. Derek was angry though, his scent no longer warm and familiar. He smelled off, like fire and pain and rage. It was dark scent, wrong for the sad wolf Stiles had come to know. Stiles tried to talk to him. The new red-eyed Derek wasn't a listener.

They stopped sleeping together after that, and Stiles stopped following him around. Because Peter was dead, Stiles told himself, but he knew it was because his friend had been taken after all, and it hurt too much to see the likeness of him. The owl was still his best friend, and she started hunting with him as she hadn't since she was only a fledgling, so he wouldn't spend too much time moping about and looking miserable. She left a tiny notch in his ear with her beak when he began too morose for her patience to handle.

The first time Stiles found Isaac asleep on the charred sofa, he ran to tell Derek, broken friendship or not. Derek just growled, saying Isaac was pack and not to harass him because it was his house not Stiles' anyway. Stiles decided not to introduce himself. Isaac was followed by Erica and then Boyd, names he found out via eavesdropping, and Stiles made a decision.

With great care, Stiles climbed up onto the roof, which took him a few days and guidance from Biter to figure out. It was fortunate he was so light, even for a fox, for the roof creaked threateningly under his paws and Stiles trembled in fear the whole time he was up there. Nonetheless, he laid down, dark coat blending in under cover of nightfall, to wait for his chance. Biter took up a post nearby, even lighter than Stiles and more capable of surviving a collapse besides. They didn't talk, that would ruin the point of hiding, but it was nice having her near.

He ambushed Derek in front of the house when he returned from gallivanting about the town, throwing himself off the roof and generally hoping for the best. Derek let out a shocked noise, surprised into reaching up automatically to catch the possibly suicidal fox. It was immensely satisfying that Derek did not immediately toss him away, instead staring in open confusion at the fox in his arms. But Stiles didn't have time to gloat.

Stiles stuck his nose in the werewolf's face and snapped, _"Enough!"_ Derek snarled, so Stiles nipped his nose, ignoring twinge of guilt when he tasted blood. As he had deserved Biter's notch in his ear, Derek deserved to lose a bit of blood. _"No more of this, you stupid, grumpy...bitter-wolf!"_ Stiles yipped in frustration, angry that there never seemed to be enough words in his vocabulary for talking to werewolves. It was easier to talk to Biter, who understood even the most broken of words, but Talia had told him werewolves were too human for that. Stiles drew his head back to paw anxiously at Derek, batting at his face with fuzzy toes and muffled claws.

Derek started off growling, except then Stiles couldn't help himself and was sticking his cold nose against Derek's neck, taking in his scent leaving his own behind. From weeks ago, when they had been friends and rolled about out an ashen floor, Stiles knew Derek was ticklish, and his paws scrabbled at any sensitive spots they could reach while he licked frantically at Derek's pulse. Derek didn't laugh, didn't acknowledge it, but Stiles knew he was laughing inside. The werewolf grumbled and wrapped his arms around Stiles so he would stop with the nonsense. Stiles grinned, tongue lolling, as Derek sat down, settling Stiles in his lap. Stiles licked his friend's face, wagging his tail so hard his whole body wriggled. The other three wolves--Betas, Derek called them, when he finally talked to Stiles later--came outside to see what the commotion was about, so Derek introduced them. They decided to called him Grizzle(or Grizzly, in Erica's case; Derek gave Stiles an odd look that spoke of remembrance), saying Grizzled Pup was a mouthful, and Stiles was alright with that. He told them names didn't really convert to the language of the wild very well, but promised to remember their names.

Stiles grew to love the pack.

Derek said Bitter-wolf was not an acceptable nickname, no.

Stiles grew to love Derek.

He only called him Bitter-wolf when his heart was too full of love to handle, or when Derek interrupted Stiles planning. He wanted to tell Derek--everything, all that he could remember. Stiles wanted them to talk about Talia together, to talk about the things she had told him. Stiles wanted Derek to know he wasn't the only one who remembered them.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Isaac brought Scott home one day. Derek and Scott fought until the scent of blood was thick in the room, in their noses. Even after so long, Stiles hated the smell of blood. As he hid underneath the table and whined, the scent grew stronger and stronger, driving him mad with memories and the smell of pain wafting from both wolves. He threw himself into the middle of the tussle, getting caught on someone's claws in the process. It was stupid, a death-wish, but he could no longer cower there and watch them bleed. The whole room froze at his pained yelp. Whining, Stiles dropped to the floor, curling and twisting around to try and lick at his wounds, tail waving frantically as he tried to focus on the here-and-now rather than an old scar that had felt far too similar to this.

"Stop that," Scott commanded, grabbing his nose and shoving it aside gently. "You're going to get it infected." Scott knelt down, smelling like chemicals and healing and animals, and Stiles whined as his fur was pushed aside to see the new wounds. It had been a long while since he was stupid enough to get hurt. He had almost forgotten how much he hated the sight and smell of his own blood. Scott cursed, looking up at Derek with worried eyes that no longer spoke of their mutual dislike of each other. It wasn't gone, but at least they were no longer at each other's throats. "We need to take him to Deaton," Scott stated. "He needs stiches."

Stiles remembered the last time he had heard those words, an ancient, fuzzy memory with fingers and toes and a wry tone. Stiles whined. Not at the pain, though Derek didn't know that; the alpha let out a soft whine of his own. Then Derek scooped him up, and Stiles went into town in the back seat of Derek's sleek car, complaining the whole way that they wouldn't let him stick his head out the window, curled up between Erica and Isaac who had insisted on coming along. The vet, as Scott and Derek called him(Stiles couldn't remember if this was a word he knew, back when he was human) was in his office when they arrived, although he protested automatically that he was closed, Can no one read a sign anymore? when the door opened.

Scott gestured towards Stiles though, back in Derek's arms, stepping aside so Deaton could see, and Deaton resigned himself to the terrible fate of working after hours.

"Bring him back to the exam room," he directed, turning to lead the way into the back. After some prompting from Scott and a very judgmental stare on Deaton's part, Derek reluctantly laid Stiles on the table.

Stiles whined in protest of the damnedable coldness of it, but insisted, _"It's fine, I'm fine,"_ when Derek reached for him. Being held was nice, but it didn't help, not when he could smell Derek's pain and guilt and worry. Deaton's hands were even gentler than Scott's had been. He gave Stiles a shot that made his head feel fuzzy, and he fell asleep with his head lulling against Derek's chest before Deaton had even started disinfecting. Stiles was glad to miss out on that particular experience.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles woke in a little box with a little grate door. He did not react well. Writhing, panicking, fighting against the metal that contained him, Stiles screamed and screamed. He was trapped again, with no faerie to help him this time. Deaton's voice rose, trying to calm him, reassure him, but Stiles was too far gone to hear anything over the roar of blood in his ears and the tinny clatter of his claws on metal. Although, maybe Deaton was actually trying to talk to Derek since the werewolf was there only a moment later. He managed to restrain himself from breaking the cage, though it was a near thing thwarted only by the fact that undoing the latch was in fact easier than ripping the door off, and then Stiles was leaping out or Derek was dragging him free and even though Stiles wanted to run and bounce and prove to himself, celebrate that he wasn't in a cage anymore, he found himself curling gratefully into his friend's arms. With a relieved sigh, he buried his nose in Derek's neck, taking in his comforting scent, no longer so dark and angry. Stiles sighed again, utterly content.

Deaton apologized for putting Stiles in a cage, and Derek, after some pestering, conveyed Stiles' acceptance of the apology, though he made Deaton promise not to put him in one again. It didn't make him feel much better until Derek promise not to let Stiles be put in a cage again. Trusting his friend absolutely, even with all the troubles they had had, Stiles licked his face as thanks and yipped out a laugh when Derek grumbled, knowing the wolf secretly enjoyed Stiles' affection.

Stiles' heart was full of Derek. Stiles didn't know how to love Derek any more than he already did, but every day he seemed to manage it. When the werewolves had their "training," Stiles stood to the side and yelled encouragements. Sometimes he teased Derek. Sometimes he made Derek "spar" with him, which was really just roughhousing, like he had with the young pups years and years ago. Usually the rest of the pack joined in, both with the teasing and the roughhousing, which made Derek grumble that Stiles was a bad influence. Stiles loved the pack more and more every day, too, to the point that he introduced them to the owl, who seemed pleased to meet them. Isaac asked why Stiles called her Biter, and she was pleased to demonstrate. She enjoyed a victim who could heal her nips, although she vocalized complaints that she could not notch Isaac's ear as she had Stiles'.

Stiles didn't know how he could be any happier than he was.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

One night, on a whim, Stiles asked Derek to show him the town. It only took twenty minutes before Stiles was crawling into Derek's lap, even though he was driving and had told Stiles that wasn't safe. He was shaking, whimpering, agony in his heart though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. The town felt too familiar. It hurt. It scared him. Stiles buried his face in Derek's chest and begged him to take him home. Derek stroked his ears and complied without question. Stiles curled up in his den when they got home, though he hadn't since his ambush on Derek. After only a few hours however, he crawled back out and went to sleep with Derek. Derek was still awake. Waiting for him, Stile thought. It felt much better in Derek's arms than in the nest.

 _"I should just start calling you my den,"_ Stiles mumbled sleepily, and Derek huffed out a laugh.

"Good night, Grizzle," Derek murmured as he scratched Stiles' ears affectionately.

Stiles sighed, happy once more. _"Good night, Bitter-wolf."_

In the morning, Stiles complained that he hadn't even stuck his head out the window, but he didn't ask to go into town again.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

Stiles didn't know how he could get any happier--until he realized how powerless he was to help his pack. And it was his pack, he realized at the same time. Foxes were solitary creatures but, as the owls had all told him, Stiles was not an ordinary fox. Stiles lashed out at the door in frustration, howled his anger. His pack wasn't here. His pack was in _danger._ He didn't know for certain, but he _knew_. They were supposed to be back, supposed to have come home hours ago. and there was an ache in his heart that felt like something was breaking apart. Stiles needed to find them, needed to save them, or die with them if he had to. Stiles would not be alone again, refused to lose his family ever again. But here he was, just a useless fox with a door closed in his face. They hadn't meant to close him in; he had been sleeping when they left, and they had been fixing up the house. They were only going to be gone for school; Stiles would be asleep the whole time, so what did it matter if he was closed in? He would never have even known, no one would have probably, except it was dark and his pack was still gone.

Biter screeched at him, and he turned away from the door to stare at the window. It was broken. Just one pane, with jagged edges that the owl peered dubiously at from where she perched on the roof. Fortunately, Stiles was a very small fox. Perhaps it was not so bad that he was "scrawny" after all.

He only noticed the scratches from the glass because they stung and pulled when he scrambled down from the roof. They twinged and protested, but the ache in his heart hurt far more. With Biter swooping overhead, Stiles sprinted down the road, even when the dirt driveway gave way to pavement that felt awful on his paws. He ran into town because that's where they had gone, where his pack was in danger. Humans still scared him, but the loss of his pack scared him far more.

Stiles let his heart guide him, and this time, for the first time, his heart knew just where to go. The two story house it brought him to didn't smell like the pack, didn't smell like danger or answers. But Stiles _knew_ this house. Knew it, somehow, though he had never been this far into a town. He wondered if he had known this place as a human, dared not wonder too strongly, dared not hope that he had somehow found himself even near his old home. Even as he denied himself this hope, he trusted his heart. He had no other options. Biter cooed encouragingly from a perch over the house's porch, which was lit by a warm light that drew him in as light rarely did any more.

Trotting up to the door, Stiles began to claw at it. Scratch at it. Paw and yip and howl, growing more frantic with every passing moment that he was away from his pack. The door was yanked open, a weapon he recognized from hunters peering down at him, but Stiles was already stumbling back. Looking up at a man with kind, tired eyes and shoulders so broad they looked like they could hold the weight of the world, Stiles didn't even know what fear was. His limbs felt weak and his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. Joy buzzed through him, pushing him towards the cusp of a cliff that felt like a revelation, an all-encompassing realization that would change everything.

Stiles didn't have time for that though, whatever it was. He needed this man to help him, somehow. Needed him to find his pack, help save them as a mere fox could not. Ignoring the weapon, he yipped and bayed and bounced, trying to explain, trying to force him to understand. He turned to go twice, both times turning back to go right on yipping at the man when he didn't follow. The third time he turned and trotted off, the man lowered his weapon and followed with a quiet, "What in the Hell," that sounded like resignation and wonder.

Stiles scented the air and lead the way down the street, pausing now and then to make sure his helper kept up. The man kept muttering to himself in disbelief, but Stiles just kept trotting, yipping encouragements when it seemed the man was losing faith. Judging by the shifting of the moon, Stiles figured that it had been an hour of trotting about before he caught a fresh scent. The man was tiring, and kept looking over his shoulder, clearly considering abandoning this odd trial. That didn't matter though, because Stiles could smell his pack now. He yipped eagerly, picking up the pace a bit, though he had to slow down immediately; the human couldn't keep up, not without exhausting himself before the fight even began.

The scent lead to another house, this one completely unfamiliar. Stiles paused, staring up at it. His pack was inside. He started forward, then hesitated, looking back at the man with sudden trepidation. This enemy had taken a whole pack of werewolves, and he had brought a human to fight it. His human was going to die. Stiles whined. He didn't want his human to die. Stiles should not have brought a human into a pack fight, should not have put this man in danger.

His regrets didn't matter; it was too late for that. Recognizing that they had reached their destination while apparently overlooking or ignoring Stiles' concern, the man strode past Stiles, walking up and promptly knocking on the door without a moment's hesitation. A woman with a mane of blond hair opened it with an inquiring noise and a scent of gunpowder and death. Stiles wasted no time darting past, even when his heart stuttered. _Hunter_ , his instincts screamed a warning he ignored.

"Hey!" she shouted after him, but Stiles was too busy listening to his heart to hear. He followed the pack's scent and the pull in his chest, yipping for them, whining when no one responded. There was a door ajar, leading down into an underground room, the smell of pack and blood and pain pouring from it. Stiles let out a triumphant yet agonized howl as he went bounding down the stairs, terrified of what he might find at the bottom of them.

"Grizzle?!" rasped a familiar voice, though it sounded far rougher than last Stiles heard it.

Stiles tried to shout Derek's name, and could only cry his relief, pouring his feelings for Derek into a throaty noise that encompassed all that Derek was to him. He heard Biter screech outside, for of course she had heard him, an acknowledgement of the wordless name he had given the wolf. Derek would never know that word, would never truly understand the depth of its meaning, for even with a human tongue Stiles would never find the words to tell him, what it meant to give a name, what the name itself meant. That was okay though. Stiles would just keep trying to put it to words, because Derek was alive, and Stiles intended to keep him that way. Stiles would happily spend the rest of his life doing that, explaining broken not-words and keeping his pack alive. Because they were all alive, if looking a little worse for wear, bound in chains and marked by blood and scars that healed slowly.

The man he had brought to help and the hunter woman who had stolen his pack came down the stairs, arguing loudly. If her protesting and him simply stating over and over again that it was "Police business." The man barked something angry when he saw the pack. There was a tussle, which Stiles watched worriedly, but the man was clever and determined in the face of the woman's madness. Stiles cheered when the man had her pinned face-down, one large hand wrapped around her wrists while the other reached behind him. He put something shiny on the blond-maned woman's wrists, locking them together, then forced her to sit in the corner. Once satisfied she was well and truly stuck, he pulled out a little shiny thing. A phone, Stiles recalled as the man tapped on it, causing it to let out a tiny ring that he didn't like at all. He hadn't seen a phone in a long time. Stiles tilted his head to listen in for a moment, interested to hear a voice coming out when the ringing stopped, but the woman was moving. The woman had a weapon and her hands were free and she had hurt his pack and was going to hurt the man, the man who had come to help, following after a fox he couldn't even understand.

Stiles didn't think. He didn't need thoughts or words. What he did need was thumbs and a body not so scrawny. What he needed was long fingers and strong arms and broad shoulders all his own. All he did was jump.

"No!" The shout was hoarse and unfamiliar. It tore from his throat, all wrong and scratchy. It didn't feel like a yelp, and his paws didn't feel fuzzy when they landed on the woman. He bared his teeth at eyes that were suddenly full of honest fear that overcame even the madness. "No," he repeated, firmer, holding on to wrists that fit neatly inside his paws. She writhed against his grip, but Stiles was a hunter too. He was young and strong and fierce, and clever enough that even the wise old owls called him friend. He dug his claws, short and blunt, into her skin until the weapon dropped to the ground. Stiles felt a vicious smile curl his mouth, which felt all wrong. Actually, everything felt wrong.

No, he realized, not wrong. Just...different.

The man, who was suddenly not so big at all, was there, taking the woman from his grip and replacing the metal on her wrists firmly, this time not releasing her. Everyone was staring at Stiles though. Even Stiles was staring at Stiles. He wiggled his paws in front of him, staring at them in confusion, wondering where his fur was. Long fingers curled as he watched, and Stiles' mouth dropped open in sudden comprehension.

"Really?" he asked his hands, though it came out all warped and weird. That didn't bother him though because: hands! He had hands! Fingers and toes and a human mouth that didn't really know how to make humans words yet but he had learned how to speak fox so he knew he could relearn human. English, he corrected himself, although maybe he would learn other languages too. Stiles wanted to tell the whole world everything he could, all the things he had told only trees and squirrels and owls for so long.

Stiles suddenly whipped about, arms flying out as his limbs go all tangled up and his head spun. He didn't let that stop him though, refused to let anything keep him from this most important of missions. Stiles stared at a wolf in chains and blood, and a grin split his face so wide he thought his face might crack.

"Derek!"

The word falling from his tongue was everything he had ever dreamed it would be.

*~*~*~*~*

 

The sheriff tried to demand answers right there in the basement, as did everyone else, until the deputy John had called cleared his throat and reminded them that he wasn't the only one who was going to show up. Perfectly timed, sirens sounded outfront, announcing the arrival of ambulances and more police. The sheriff had to get up to handle things, though he didn't seem to want to let Stiles go for even a moment. The deputy found a pair of sweats somewhere in the house and passed them to Stiles before anyone else got down there, apparently electing to just not ask. Stiles wriggled into them with Derek and his dad's help, muttering wordless protests under his breath.

Stiles smiled reassuringly at his dad, resisting the urge to cling to him and never let go. His dad was still a Hero after all; heroes were very busy sorts. He gave his dad a look, then gestured at the glaring blonde. The sheriff grimaced, but sighed, ruffled Stiles' outrageous amount of hair, which had apparently kept growing even though he was a fox, and went to do his job obediently. Derek just tucked his face into Stiles neck, breathing in his scent, and let the humans fuss, letting out shocked noises when they found all the werewolves--surprise, surprise--without nearly enough damage to account for the amount of blood on them. Fortunately for the case against Kate Argent, as Stiles later found out the hunter was called, there was enough damage left from wolfsbane-laced weaponry and elecricity to prove that torture had occured, though no one but the pack would ever know just how bad it had actually been.

Stiles fell asleep in the midst of his pack long before the night was through. When he woke up, he was in his own room. His room from so long ago. The bed was a little too small now, when it had once seemed much too large. The decorations were childish and old, coated in a fine layer of dust. Stiles couldn't remember the reason for most of the decorations, the meanings they had once held for him.

The room, he found as he lay there staring at the ceiling, felt stuffy and small and _strange._ The longer he laid there, the more he felt like he didn't belong there, like it was wrong for him to try to fit in there. Stiles whined. He raised his hands to cover his face, then froze, lifting his hands again to stare at them in awe.

"Hands," he breathed, and relaxed. He had hands. He was _human._ Everything else could be fixed, could be changed to suit the person he now was.

The door opened and Derek walked in. Stiles grinned at him, as openly happy as he had been as a fox, though with less wagging. Derek strolled right over, dropping down onto the bed to envelope Stiles in a hug. Stiles was more than happy to reciprocate, though he laughed when the rest of the pack appeared to climb into the now _much_ too small bed, returning the hugs as best he could as he grinned goofily.

Someone cleared his throat in the doorway. Stiles looked up to see his dad standing there, along with Scott and--" _Mrs. McCall,_ " Stiles whined. He clambered out of the bed, nearly getting caught in the covers. He stumbled gracelessly across the room, still unused to human limbs. Mrs. McCall was crying as they wrapped each other up in a hug. She felt small in Stiles' arms, almost fragile, and he shed his first tears since he had been turned into a fox so many years ago into her shoulder. The sheriff rubbed his shoulder with a hand that felt too small, and Scott buried his face between Stiles' shoulder blades. At least Scott's face felt about the right size.

"It's so good to have you back," Melissa sobbed. Stiles nodded against her shoulder.

"I've missed you guys so much," Stiles whispered. She kissed his hair, which she got a mouthful of and laughed. And just like that the painful spell was broken and they were laughing at Stiles' ridiculous hair. Isaac, wearing a big, goofy grin, popped into the room to throw a jest at Stiles' hair as well, then told them that breakfast was ready and if they didn't want to fight off hungry werewolves they had better hurry up.

Stiles didn't have to grow to love his family.

Stiles loved his family all along.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

There were only four chairs at the kitchen table("Mom and I come over sometimes," Scott whispered in her ear. "We could never get rid of you chair, so...") and no extras in the house, not to mention not really enough room at the table, so they all piled into the living room to eat. Stiles wound up in the middle of the couch with Melissa, the sheriff and, squeezed in, Scott. Derek sat in front of him to lean back against his legs. They turned the television on. Stiles, as much as he wanted to touch everything, pet everyone, talk and jump and celebrate his humanness, was instantly tranfixed. He didn't bother trying to relearn utensils when he could barely manage walking, just sat there shoving food into his mouth as he gaped at the screen. He hadn't watched TV in--okay, he was going to stop thinking about how long it had been since things happened. Lots of things hadn't happened in a long time. It was established. Time to live in the moment, Stiles.

Fortunately, the pack had terrible manners as a whole, so Stiles didn't even have the chance to feel guilty or gross, and no one seemed particularly bothered by it anyway. At least he didn't growl while he ate, unlike some people(Erica).

They all finished eating quickly, but they took one look at Stiles and decided to let him finish watching the show. It was just NCIS, but Stiles--Stiles had never watched NCIS. They let him finish the episode, then turned off the TV. Everyone twisted around to look at him expectantly. It was the sheriff who actually asked, as gently as he could.

"Stiles--can you tell us...what happened?" He sounded anxious, worried, like he thought Stiles would get upset over the question. Stiles was quick with a reassuring smile and a nod.

"It all started with a supervillain," he began, picking his words carefully, and his dad's smile had a clear meaning; his son was home. And yeah, he was. For good.

**Author's Note:**

> I worked on this really randomly for a really long time, and then Trilliath told me I should finish it and basically she has a lot of power over me. A lot of the parts are really poorly worded, and I used the wrong terms for things(like pup should have been kit but I got attached to the name okay).
> 
> This isn't quite it. I intend to write an epilogue in this verse at least, and maybe some random side-chapters to answer any leftover questions.
> 
> I wanted a lot of Stilinski family feels in this, but I also wanted it to be sort of fast-paced, but laid-back. I wanted to convey the kinda...odd way that Stiles, first as a little boy and then as a fox, viewed the world(in my head). Black and white but all gray-areas. Simplistic and complicated. 
> 
> For the record, there were definitely a shitton of pack movie nights after this. They made an Avengers movie?! Stiles has missed so much.
> 
> btw something I noticed when editting--uh, how old Cora acts in Stiles' encounter with her? Not a great indicator of how old Stiles probably is in that scene. Pretend Cora is younger or something, okay? Shhhhhh suspend your disbelief


End file.
